I'm sorry you feel that way

One of the hallmarks of complex PTSD is attracting abusers. The definition of abuser has evolved over the last few decades just like trauma has. I'm 44, my underlying definition of abuse was not as...lets say...broad and woke as someone that's 25 and entering therapy. For the sake of keeping things simple, lets soften the word abuser and use the words, someone that doesnt know how to "communicate their feelings well". Someone that perhaps thinks its normal to feel one thing, and express another to passive aggressively persuade how you respond to them. Or maybe someone that pretends for extended periods of time to be something that they're not to remain close to you. Or even someone that betrays your trust completely, and justifies that to themselves, and to you, by guilt tripping you for not validating their insecurities..... ummm that's abuse. That weak, needy guy that seems so fragile that you tiptoe around boundaries to not hurt his feelings....is a manipulator. The phrase, "I'm sorry you feel that way" is a catch all indicator you're interacting with an abuser. The cousin phrase is "I'm sorry you see things that way", particularly when you're confronting someone about a betrayal....that they feel 100% justified in. Yes, those guys, that guy, is an abuser. Mind blown. Probably obvious to most people, but for me, that kind of sympathy and empathy driven "role play" kicked my conditioned responses into full throttle..and the more abusive and manipulative things became, the more I was bonded to the manipulation and manipulator. I entered therapy looking for answers about why my relationships always failed, and to cure myself of my "unfounded" fears of commitment. But two therapists now have redirected those thoughts to question why I formed attachments to abusive, controlling, toxic people in the first place. People I put on a pedastal and believed to be salt of the Earth. They push me to examine why I didn't walk away when the neediness was first shown, and further why I stayed invested when that neediness morphed into cruelty, punishment, gaslighting and manipulation. All of which a mentally and emotionally healthy person would have easily walked away from. I am the problem for sure, it just doesn't look like I thought it would to correct it. My relationships did not fail. My manipulationships failed, and thank God for that.

Just love me, til you dont know how

I created a whole new blog, and then on a whim decided to try and hack into my old one with old passwords, and I got in. I like the idea of picking up where I left off a decade or so ago. Still broken is my only relevant update, atleast in terms of what I need to write about. Never not broken. We repeat what we don't repair and all that shit. It's not a good look, and I'm paying someone 175$ a week to help me find my way out. I'm learning that therapy is a waste of time and money if you dont have a good one. I've spent a fortune on therapy in my lifetime, but I've never had a good one until now. Or, maybe therapy has advanced and I was wise enough to move to one with current and relevant methods. He specializes in trauma. The more current psychological definition of trauma that doesnt necessarily mean war flashbacks, or plane crashes, or rape. It includes any event or series of events that cause you to cope by using the fight or flight parts of your brain.... and then they kind of never turn off. Thats probably a terrible explanation, but I'm still learning. Its where compulsive behaviors live, and I have quite a few of those. Compulsive behaviors are ones that you know you dont want to do, but cant stop doing even when you know they are bad and you want to stop them. They line up on a spectrum- spending too much time on social media, overeating, not washing your face before bed, retail therapy, Netflix all day, not exercising.....addiction. We all have compulsive behaviors. Mine include all the normal scale ones but also binge drinking too often, staying in unhealthy and toxic relationships, procrastinating and self sabotaging.... and a general addiction to chaos. Chaos feels like home to me, so when peace settles in, I subconsciously interrupt it with tiny fires and five alarm blazes to get back to my normal state. I'm doing this exercise with my therapist called internal family systems. I close my eyes and I ask the different roles and parts of me to step forward and reveal themselves, and chat. They come to me in different mediums. Some are reminiscent of figures in my life, and some are just me dressed in different costumes that each carry themselves in very distinct ways. Its hard for me to tap into because it feels so corny, but if I sit long enough they are beginning to approach. We ask them questions. Sometimes they respond, other times they dont. Not all of my parts have shown up to the party yet, and thats ok. This week three new ones came forward with big, positive, confident energy. One was me on my best hair day, skin glowing; attractive and knew of the power that holds and owns it. One was charismatic and hilarious and can connect with and entertain anyone. The third was an avid long distance runner, in shape, lean, balanced, head held high stripped of all nonsense. There was a fourth, holding notebooks full of mental health research, all the details of my narratives, and meticulous documentation of every pain I've ever felt. She's nervous and fidgety, and these confident girls make her nauseous and scared and quietly indignant from being forced to share space with them. She wouldn't say it, I just saw it on her face, and could read it in her body language. When I asked her the guided questions, she began pouring through her notes...but still didnt trust me enough to put it into words. My therapist later corrected me that it probably wasnt me she didnt trust, it was her long documentation of pain, and that these confident parts were the negligent parts that left the door open for this pain to come in...it's people that I dont trust, and its her job to protect me from that. Bless her heart with her glasses and notes. He wanted to label her The Fixer, but I insisted on calling her The Know It All. That's shitty of me because she has worked hard to keep me safe, and has protected me from countless forms of anguish. She refers back to her notes frequently and speaks even when her voice shakes... "excuse me, I believe a boundary is in order here".....or "wait wait wait, let me look at my notes, but I'm pretty sure this same scenario happened back in 2011, and we need to abort mission". She wasn't heard for so long when she really needed to be heard, and so now she's frantic. She's scared all the other parts of me into submission and completely taken over. Everything hurts, and everything and everyone causes pain. Let's read up on that in bed for 5 or 6 more hours, or maybe forever, before we think we can "life" again out there. Tonight I was driving home from my chaotic job, on a high. I drove home with my sunroof open, happy playlist cued up on shuffle. Uncomfortably loud, because...chaos. Now when I do things and feel things, I sometimes sense these parts of me stepping forward when they feel safe to do so. I will call them "Attractive" and "Charismatic", but those two rascals absolutely came alive when Michael Jackson, "Dont stop til you get enough" popped up on shuffle. They were already on the dance floor at Johnnys Hideaway, drunk and sweaty dancing without a care in the world. Those two love that shit. But The Fixer heard something different. She usually stays out of my music space. If she controls the playlist her intent is flopping around in all the pain. Lots of Post Malone, lots of Ray Lamontagne, and on super dark days The National. She heard my favorite sweaty Johnny's Hideaway jam articulate "Just love me, til you dont know how"; and I've heard that song a million times, but I've never heard it like that before. She morphed it quickly into a ridiculous charicature of my life. Everything in those notebooks, toxic endings; abandonment after abandonment, in perfect portraiture, in a fucking Michael Jackson song. My dance anthem for decades, now stripped of it's magical chaotic charm. JUST LOVE ME TIL YOU DONT KNOW HOW There's enough of my truth in that verse to pause and acknowledge it, but not enough to compel me to turn the fucking music down. I drove home without turning the music down, or judging myself for enjoying it, or for picking the lyrics apart. I'm home writing, and dismissed the idea of making plans to sweaty dance on my next kid free weekend. Six months ago I wouldn't have been driving home to hear the song in the first place, I would have been hanging with my industry friends until 5AM, milking every responsibility free minute before returning to work depleted and full of anxiety tomorrow morning. I should be in bed, but I washed my face and applied my retinol. That's progress, and thats what this blog is about .

Momma Bird

I've never been an especially patient person. I have always been OK with that because that means I am excited about fun times, reasonably nervous about things on the horizon, in motion, going places; doing things, growing and being a more successful me. As a young mother of two beautiful healthy boys it never occurred to me that anything idle could be worthwhile. The very essence of two young boys is constant motion. I was master of my high energy domain. I was content with my life as a stay at home mom, and my tight little world of 148 Dials Drive.

My third pregnancy quite honestly didn't scare me, but the prospect of adding another creature that needed food, shelter, and attention sure did. The boys were so young and only 15 months apart. How would I care for three? My husband had just been promoted and was now beginning to travel. I was on my own with them most of the time while he worked, and very overwhelmed by the idea. As the trimesters expired we learned that we were expecting a girl this time around, and I was of course very excited, as was everyone around us. I was seasoned at this pregnancy stuff and I had it relatively easy. My biggest worry was where to find poodles to decorate her walls. I laughed and smiled and planned with my girlfriends, as she was the first baby girl in a while..we were all caught up in a wave of toile and tiny pink Adidas shoes. It was one of the happiest times in my life, oozing with love and a righteous, naive happiness.

I had a history of big babies, so I was set to be induced two weeks before my due date. My prenatal visits were quiet and uneventful. I did not ask many questions, because I already knew what to expect. I checked into labor and delivery on the big day with my hair neatly styled, light makeup and pearls. It was a day of celebration because me and my husband, and my mother, and my two best girlfriends were welcoming my baby girl into the world. We talked and laughed all day as the pitocin dripped and the epidural numbed any and all contractions. I labored peacefully and watched the girls play poker. Bill read the paper. I watched TV. We joked with our labor and delivery nurse and with each other about how shy I was about anyone seeing my nether regions, still hung up on that even the third time around. When it was time to push none of us ever thought to be scared, we were all just excited to see this baby girl we had talked so much about.

I only remember a moment of the pushing, and hearing "She's almost here Melissa"....and then there was just silence. Every one's faces went gray, and no one would look at me. The doctor removed her and placed her pink little body on mine, loosely wrapped in blue medical dressing, and my hand went straight around her wet little abdomen. The nurse asked the doctor if this was anticipated...was what anticipated?.....I laid eyes on my newborn baby girl, and through my unprepared perception, half of her face was missing. She had only half a nose, and half a lip..and a hole right where the other half of her nose and lip should be. She wasn't crying, and no one would say anything. I simply began to say "no"....just "no" over and over again.


The nurse grabbed my arm firmly and expressed to me that it was only cosmetic, easily fixed by the wonders of modern plastic surgery, everything would be just fine. She still wasn't crying. My family and friends stood there in silence until she finally began to sputter and cry. I don't remember how it sounded now. I wish I had the presence of mind to have been in the moment, but I was in shock. Finally she was handed to me for a moment, and I wrapped her tiny fingers around mine. She had my grandmothers hands. I told everyone to start taking pictures, and to be happy. I certainly didn't want her to think we weren't happy to have her. We snapped a few smiling shots before she was whisked away to the NICU. Bill of course went with her. All the ladies excused themselves because the confusion and despair was unbearable. The bustle of childbirth subsided, and the room cleared of hospital personnel.

I was alone and crying for what seemed like an eternity in that hospital room. I cried for all the things Sara had taken away from her already. For the cruelty she would face for being different. For the ridiculous superficial hopes and dreams I had unfairly projected on her, and for all the lazy but sincere assumptions that she would be perfectly healthy....I cried over my body failing her despite what anyone tried to explain to me to the contrary and for her brothers that would surely be shocked and scared and upset, and for the desperate fruitless inner search for ways to protect her from all the pain that she was guaranteed in countless forms, and for the shock and awe of this first time in my adult life that I felt completely, and utterly helpless.

That feeling of helplessness continued as she struggled to feed and had to rely on a nasal feeding tube to get all of her nourishment. Then she struggled to breathe, and to digest food properly. I was discharged before she was, and those first few weeks were the toughest of my entire life. I was pumping breast milk around the clock, both the boys came down with walking pneumonia, and we were traveling to and from the hospital several times a day for feedings and visits, and updates...and rides on the daily medical roller coaster with threats of open heart surgeries, terminal illnesses and lifelong disabilities. I was taught how to place an ng-tube down her nostril and past the back of her throat all the way down into her tummy...and how to run an enteral feeding pump, and how to prime an IV style feeding bag. I was assured this was all temporary until she picked up feeding a little better. She came home with a diagnosis of cleft lip and palate and severe GERD as the reason for her feeding issues. I was instructed to pump breast milk and feed it to her via this pump..and then sit and hold her upright and perfectly still for at least an hour after each feeding. Aside from the many doctors visits and time in the bathroom pumping breast milk, I sat in a rocking chair in our living room almost 18 hours a day, holding our precious baby girl perfectly still.

From the vantage point of my white glider rocker with custom black gingham cushions, meant to match Sara's black poodles, I could see only a few things; the street and trees outside, the corner of my front porch and the red geranium hanging from its awning, and the fact that my life would clearly never be the same.

The show had to go on, and so our mothers had stepped up to help with the boys. Bill's mother lived with us for the entire first month. Friends sent help, came over and cleaned my house, hired babysitters, housekeepers, cooked food, ran errands....all the while I sat. It was Spring and the Bradford Pears and Peach trees were in full bloom. The leaves were fresh and new and flowers were pushing up in my flowerbeds. The world was still turning even though mine had stopped, and sitting there while others did my laundry, and mothered my boys, and sifted through my filthy refrigerator was unbearable and completely against every grain in my body.

In the geranium hanging on the front porch a momma bird had built a nest shortly before Sara was born, for the second year in a row. I thought it was kind of cool but certainly didn't pay her much attention except to acknowledge that we had a bird nest in our plant as we came and went about our business. She was back this year, and her eggs had hatched sometime around the same time Sara was hatched. I could hear the baby birds yelling at momma bird for food. When I would go and look in at her nest she would fly away and yell at me from a nearby tree branch, while her babies open and closed their shaky little beaks..croaking and crying for her to hurry up and get more food. She flew tirelessly from the nest and then back to the nest with food for her funny little starving babies all day long. I imagine now that if momma bird and I could have talked we would have joked about needing a margarita..or maybe, where is daddy bird now? But I just continued to wake up everyday and do the best I could, and so did she.

Momma bird flew into the house one day and straight into the glass of our back door...knocked herself out cold. With the front door still open I could hear her babies screaming, and I panicked over the thought of them losing her now. I picked her up in a towel and laid her limp body back into her nest with her babies. They continued to scream for food, unaffected by their lifeless mother, and I began to cry. Several minutes later Momma bird woke, shook her little head straight and flew off to find more food as if nothing had ever happened. Babies still need food whether you have a concussion or not. I don't think Mother Nature could paint a more accurate portrait of motherhood than that.

Eventually the time came for Momma bird to kick her babies out of the nest. It took her one full day to do it. She had a couple of precocious little guys that flew right out from nest to rail post, then to the ground, then back to the rail post. All the while she stood in her tree branch and chirped encouragement to the meeker ones left behind. The last little bird enjoyed a chorus of enthusiasm from his brothers and sisters..and when it finally descended shakily to the rail post they all erupted in what I like to believe were cheers and laughter. I sat with my little boys in sheer joy and watched them all practice flying in little spurts from branch to branch. It got harder by the end of the day to tell Momma Bird from her babies, and eventually they were all just gone.

I am of course out of the rocking chair now. A geneticist lead us down the winding road of tests that gave Sara a more complete diagnosis of CHARGE syndrome. We bought a computer and through it I connected with other mothers and parents of CHARGErs, and they saved my weary spirit from despair, and literally Sara's life with advice for out of town referrals and care plans. That idle time that I so detested at first, gave way to many thoughts, that then gave way to many words that I couldn't help but express somewhere, and I began to write again. Writing has given me a sense of purpose that I didn't even know I needed until Sara came along and forced me to see who I really am. I didn't have the time to plant a new geranium the next Spring, so no Momma bird set up shop on our porch again. I am still supervising and encouraging the flying skills of my own baby birds. Sara had a bumpy road there at first with many surgeries and scares, but took her first steps shortly after her third birthday. She decides her own pace, and I follow her cues. Griffin learned that year that he can switch hit in baseball, and discovered his very own entrepreneurial instincts. Grant learned that he is custom made for football and received the principals award for goodwill and leadership that year at his kindergarten graduation. I learned that it is true that God never gives us more than we can handle, and I will always somehow find a way to shake my head straight.

God fills the void

When sara was born and we were just desperate for help, answers, extra hands to hold our children...anything really that was better than the helplessness of our babies' strife we found that many of our friends and even family did not have an extra hand, time, or even the right words in them to give. I thought at the time that I was let down by many of them. I was brought to my knees, violently humbled by the fact that I am not in control. I came to learn that just because you need something, those familiar to you may not have it to give. But somehow God fills the void. For every friend that was too busy to slow down and see our new life, or walk slowly next to me during the frustration and uncertainty of raising a special needs child , there was a new friend...excited to hold my baby girl and praise the good job I was doing getting through the day. For every moment that passed sitting in the rocking chair, tube feeding my sweet, gentle little creature..where I could see the rest of the world cruelly whiz by, continue to speak of trivial things...watch TV, eat dinners, paint nails, match their clothes, and even hug their other children..hell whatever little thing I took for granted before....God gave me admiration from others that had chosen to slow down and were able to see me in a new way I hadnt thought I would ever like. They reminded me that patience is a virtue, and my struggle to find it was not a burden, but rather an inspiration. And so I find that everytime I am hurting, and my heart is spewing at its jagged edges, laid out for everyone to see because I cant hide it very well...God fills the void with kindness and love. Just when I think I'm about to fall, I am caught and helped to my feet by the most unsuspecting fans. God fills my voids with new people when unhealthy ones exit. And those new people renew my faith in the prospect of goodness and humanity. I get back what I put out, one way or another..its never as I pictured it, but always enough.

The truth about a rough day

My family has suffered for close to five years now, with sporadic relief. I work very hard to find happiness through that suffering, to remain positive and optimistic, strong and steady. I do not have a perfect record, that’s for sure, but I try. When I fail I think it catches people around me off guard, and they of course, being kind and caring individuals want to comfort me. There is a breathless moment I sometimes encounter when someone offers a very simple, well meant, already exhausted solution to whatever issue might be bobbing in our family current. I begin to explain Sara’s rare conditions, which leads to more explanations about her other rare conditions…which then leads to me speaking rapidly trying to lay out our complicated roadmap of effort before this present turmoil….and sometimes..not always…my listener begins to drift away and probably count their own blessings, or just wish that they had never asked in the first place. I can’t say that I blame them. I have learned to just plug a cork in it, and keep my complaints and explanations short and sweet. Most people around me know that I am a single mom with three kids, and that I have an unusual daughter with special needs….but I don’t really talk about it at length with anyone except my parents, my ex husband, and my boyfriend. There is simply not enough time, and honestly not enough common knowledge of those sharp particulars and confusing details. I choose not to sacrifice even more precious time that CHARGE syndrome, and Eosiniphilic Esophagitis might threaten to unnecessarily take away from me, and my precious family that needs so much more than they are getting. On a page, it is easier for me to share, because frankly that breathless social moment is a polite formality that I detest. Perhaps by now I should have learned to handle myself with more grace and strength. I pray for both grace and strength, but at the same time I hope they fall in line behind Sara’s ability to breathe and understand, or rest for Griffin and Grant’s weary little spirits. I prioritize easily, even my hopes and emotions.

I have mastered the short run. I have surprised myself time and again with my capacity to bend the path of where I thought I was going, what I thought I needed, and certainly what I wanted. I have recited the serenity prayer to accept the illness I cannot change, the healthcare policies I cannot change, and for the courage to change my outlook, so often crowded by seemingly insurmountable tasks from downright bleak to one of hope, and to never stop searching for any little part of this daily battle that I CAN change. I don’t know that praying for the wisdom to know the difference has really worked yet…. That’s all great, but I am really ready for whatever lesson it is that I am missing to master the long run. I am praying now to learn: How do I keep this pace forever? What am I doing wrong, because I am running out of steam and I sure do have a long way to go. I don’t feel as if I can’t do it. I know I can, I just don’t know how.
Having written all of that, I will wake up tomorrow morning, and after a strong cup of coffee move through the motions of my day. I will sincerely believe in my heart that there will be more happy minutes than any other kind of minutes. Just as sincerely as I hurt and obsess over my long run, I will sincerely smile and laugh with those around me. The very act of leaving the painful truths behind on a page somewhere, makes those minutes of happiness feel genuine, and they are. I surrender to this evening; this day that brought me to my knees,it is ready to pass…..
This morning I stood in the window of a public service agency and cried tears of joy that a medical expense of $1170 per month will not be squeezed from the dry rock of my family budget. The state employee that pulled up Sara’s file cried too, and so did her co workers. That is a sharp and welcomed contrast to Nancy, the intake coordinator at Apria healthcare that has been the bearer of bad news and bad attitude for the last 7 days. We have been given several months to rearrange her care plan. I must admit, my pumpkin spice latte’ tastes much sweeter this morning. Once again God has filled the void.

Don't carve me out

don't let your silly dreams...
fall in between
the cracks of the bed and the walls"- My Morning Jacket

I have tried not to acknowledge the sentiment of another year closing, because the holidays felt as if they belonged to everyone else this year. My chorus of another year down, resolutions, all of that jazz would be drowned out. And lately, I like the feel of being drowned out, laying low, sitting and watching the wheels go by. I dont have as much to say to those around me because if 2010 taught me anything, it is that I have so much to learn, and that is a neverending process. I still have too many overwhelming, unanswered questions in my heart. I'd rather read and look and listen.

Christmas this year was almost surreal. I watched it happen around me and I never jumped in to feel any of it. I did however find myself utterly heartbroken on Christmas Eve that I do not have the happy home that I have wanted to refind for the last five years. The home that finds me settled, and making plans without fear the bottom is about to drop out. The home where I can mother my children the way that I want to, hang pictures, and paint walls, and host parties and see a future ahead. I cant see clearly past the smoke of everything that has burned down around me...still. My home is packed in boxes, waiting for me to find my way out. I remember that optimistic, fearless woman I was. I did love like I have never been hurt, brazenly infact, and now that five years have passed I wonder where exactly I became so fearful and dyfunct. A fragile balance of fear and fearlessness to try, to put myself out there, to hope, to trust. Lonely and grieving somedays that I am going to bed, and waking up alone. I am not grounded without a partner. And then other days I find power and joy in being my own person, making my own happiness, and drinking in the goodness that is my life, thankful that I dont have to touch the ground if I dont want to.

This weakness in my resolve makes me literally nauseous and disgusted. I dont know many people living a love dream. I see realitites full of mistrust, boredom, you name it..but they stay where I have chosen, and continue to choose, to leave. I could have just stayed with Bill and worked through the death and aftermath of his cheating...and we would be in a large beautiful house, with nicer cars, vacations, retirement...I would have built on my signature holiday dishes, and hosted dinner parties the last five years instead of being wasted in bars, dating to no avail. Free. But had I stayed I would have been silently dying a million little deaths and replaying internal dialogues with myself about having the balls to get out. I got out, and jumped from the frying pan into the flames. Mom warned me, and I didnt listen.

I chose freedom over safety, and it has been a hellish storm all the while. I still choose the sometimes excrutiating path of freedom over committing to mistakes that would eventually lead to those million little deaths of an unhappy marriage. To be alive is to feel it all, and I do. Every moment that stole my heart deep in love, and every moment that broke it.

I dont know if I have it all wrong, and that I just dont try hard enough to make things work...or if I am going to find something really great on the other side of this someday and all the hurt will be worth it...because I did not settle. I used to believe fervently in love.

I dont know what I believe now. I just know that I am in the middle place, bored with the novelty of being hot, bored with going out, stunted by single and all the gratuitous social bullshit I fill my voids with trying to find what I want.

If I lived in a world free of spirituality, and beautiful music, and words strung together in a masterpiece...I might forget that I ever believed, and never be taunted by it again. I could move on and let go, and just settle and settle down. But I'm not built that way. My heart waxes to the point of discomfort in the saturation of a pure love song, and in a first kiss, and I am trapped again in my hopelessly hopeful search. And its so silly, and it's more of a ridiculous dream at this point than a reality, but I dont want to be logical and let love fall between the cracks of the bed and the walls. If I did, what the fuck have I gone through all of this for?

this is almost more than I can bare to hear, overwhelmingly heartbreaking and lovely.
"a white blank page...
and a swelling rage...
rage"

If you dont ever take the time to listen to the videos I post, make this one an exception.

Mumford and Sons- "White blank Page"

"and as for the clouds
just let them roll away
roll away
roll away" -Ray LaMontagne

There are two very lost, morally broken people that have intersected my life recently...and just when I think I have a grip on some closure, I get dished another helping of brain scramble and the whole thing opens back up again. The details dont matter, and honestly I couldn't tell you what they would be anyway because everything I know about it is based on half truths and conflicting stories, and drama. Drama that I never asked to be a part of, and didnt deserve to be a part of, and will never find acceptable. period.
So, since closure can not come from truth and understanding, it is coming from washing my hands of both of them. Life is too short, and there are too many good things in mine to spend my time used, confused, and disheartened by the sour ones.

I'll be dancin on a ponies head....someday

The karaoke machine made it's debut at my first Tampax Mafia party...and our selection of songs was limited, but I do remember squeaking out back up to Jennifers version of "If I had a milion dollars" from the safety of a knuckle dragging buzz and a corner in my living room. Jennifer earned the nickname Closet Karaoke Freak that night because she knows all the lyrics to every song, even the inaudible parts where you and I would usually mumble. This night sparked the tiny fire in me that is aching to sing, out loud, in the same manner that I car diva, or belt out a drunk diva sing along. But turn the volume down and when my voice stands alone it dies, or rather I pass out...literally. I have maybe been known to be a little bit of a show off. I can stand in front of a room of women and explain to them how to find their G-spot, wear a school girl outfit around a bar and ask every single person to buy shots from me, and spill my guts freely all over these pages, but when it comes to karaoke I am a straight up chicken shit.

The Summer after the first karaoke party, The Tampax Mafia hosted a huge weekend in Atlanta, a yaya invitational if you will, or intoxication revival. Ladies only, friends and sisters, the idea being you come and be who you are. Bring out your ugly laugh, act like an idiot, fall on your face, let all your shit hang out and indulge in misbehaving because we got nothin but love for ya. I started running my mouth months in advance about how I was soooo going to belt out "If I can't have you" by Alicia Keyes. My car diva version of this song was already spot on, it was a favorite during the Maxima days, driving around with the sunroof open and the Bose turned up as loud as it would reasonably go, driving too fast and loving every second of it. So Kelly secured the tune, and on the big night I stood in front of my dearest closest friends, clutching the microphone to my chest as if I was praying for my life, barely able to make a sound. I got out a few pathetic baby bird sounds before all the blood rushed out of my upper body and I had to hit the floor.

Ever since my memory has wrestled down my deep desire to sing with anxiety attacks at even the thought. When I was mapping out my roadtrip, Machine Gun and I were going to meet up in New York, just the two of us and sing "Jackson" by Johnny and June Carter Cash. We thought for sure that New York would love our Southern accents and song choice so much that they would erupt in glorious applause. Machine Gun and I had a magic that made me feel invincible. I was convinced that she sings "I'll be dancin' on a ponies head", to which he laughed hysterically and said "that's not what she says but baby if you wanna dance on a ponies head, god damn it I'll wrestle that thing down and hold it for you". There is no doubt in my mind that if we had done it together I would have belted it out like I was born to sing, just as I wrote amazing things and saw things as a writer when he was my muse and my friend. But we flaked out like we always do, just days before I was supposed to leave. We burn white hot and then burn out. Nothing that passionate can last long.

On the trip I confessed my karaoke madness to everyone, and Jenee and Laura both looked for spots to do it, but each mention of a specific time or place and my heart began palpitating and I would feel faint. Jenee even made me a karaoke practice cd for private use on the interstates as I was making my way up the East Coast. I considered Jeff Buckley "lover you should have come over" and Amy Whinehouse "Me and Mr Jones", both ambitious numbers...but I cant help it, I want to go big or go home. The cousins tried in Florida to arrange a karaoke night, but I froze and chickened out before we even left the house. I stayed home instead of going big, my karaoke dreams a failure, crushed by fear. Infact, aside from writing a book that never gets published, I can't think of anything I am more afraid of or paralyzed by....

when home is a burning ring of fire

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I have had a few ill connections in my life. I have also had some sweet and harmless ones. There is only one that is the love of my life. There has been an undertow of emotions pulling me under, slowly but surely for six long months. I underestimate how poorly and slowly my heart and mind process grief. A slow dissolve. I dont cry really, I wish I did, but I dont. In most cases I keep a stronghold on denial up until the last bitter second that I am forced to see that which I have made myself numb to, and even then, I do it begrudgingly, and only because the undertow wins. The undertow took me under about a month ago when I was laying on the sofa at my mothers house with blisters burned into my stomach because I had come completely undone, one thread at a time. And the only person that I needed to comfort me, is the same person that pulled the first thread.

He always asked me to write about him while we were together, or to even write him a love letter, and I never could. I tried once and it was smartassy and he didnt like it because it was a list of details. It sucked. He never said it sucked, it just didnt touch him. He never commented on my writing either way, just quietly read it and helped me write html code for blogs while sipping his cokes out of a can. I felt like I was trying to describe a forest by using a magnifying glass on the bark of one tree. Some things simply cannot be seen until you step back from them.
Our story never sounded like a movie. Our beginning was the root of our end because it started in a bar, with insecurities and skeletons and gossip and baggage...and all of those things which kill the purity of pure things. He was the first person I ever liked for who he was inside, and not for the idiotic reasons we women end up with alpha male clowns.
He was sweet yes, but not harmless. A genius honestly, which we both referred to as the big brain. The big brain spent many years studying theology, and family dynamics, and psychology, and sitting on the sidelines with beautiful girls taking notes. The big brain had a power that I was no match for, and that he couldnt turn off if he wanted to. He could store info like a squirrel, things that I loved, things that I wanted, things that I might want, things that might make me more comfortable, things that would make me smile, things that would make me laugh, things I might like to eat, things that might cure my ailments, and things that would encourage my goals, things that I never knew I needed that he could see clearly. As quickly as it processed amazing gestures done out of love, it processed a few here and there done out of hurt. And when it did, it was capable of breaking me into a million pieces, without even realizing it. It is his great gift and also his worst enemy at times. It knew how to give me what I wanted in a way that shielded me from ever questioning what lied beneath the surface. "To tell the truth it's hard enough without a lover, who you only want to hide your darkness from so you dont let them down"- Ryan Adams That lyric haunts me because it describes what happened between us perfectly. That's exactly what he did, but only because I did and said things that made him feel like he had to. Things that I didnt think anything of...because I was careless and dont have a big brain that doesn't forget. I feel my way through things until I feel threatened and when I am my little brain just falls into broken records of obsessive worry that are impossible to break free from. We poisoned eachother with our insecurities, mine that seeped out one drop at a time because I couldnt keep anything in, and his in blows from left field because he kept them in until his mental will had a moment of weakness, which was not often. Neither of us could help it, but we tried because we loved eachother so much.
I can say on my end, and assume on his that everyone close to us can see clearly all the reasons we should not have loved eachother. We should be written off and discounted as a waste because of all the childish hurt that transpired. Hurt that burns bridges and exhausts everyone else that loves you. There are no bridges left now except for the one painful truth that he is my toxic soul mate. He is who I need to feel like I am home but the fire that burns my shelter to ash. We have learned this the hard way, always wanting to just go home to eachother, always limping out of it with third degree burns.

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Ah...You drift into my dreams,
as if you had the right...
And you showed me how you broke me
doing all the little things I really like..."
-Leonard Cohen

Oh Leonard...That's how it happens to me, that I get sidetracked and spend my energy focused on love. It is afterall the most intoxicating force out there. Especially when it is new, or established, or broken. Tripping and falling in front of me, it is always there in some form. A passionate memory, a stab of wanting and wondering, stories of how it has shaped me, and songs....so many songs that taunt, torture and marinate my eternal optimism that all of this hurt, disappoinment, walking away, and letting go has not been in vain. It has been because I believe in soul mates..and all that jazz. still. just not right now.